


Silence is louder than a scream

by MurderOfCrowss



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Captivity, Creepy Ben Solo, Dark fic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Fully written will update quickly, Halloween Horror short story, Horror, Inspired because I think dollhouses are creepy, Modification happens off camera or talked about, No HEA, No blood and gore., Non-Consensual Body Modification, Objectification, Oral Sex, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rey dies but doesn't, So I'm not marking character death, Survival Horror, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurderOfCrowss/pseuds/MurderOfCrowss
Summary: It was supposed to be the perfect day to take aerial snapshots of the picturesque mountainside—and it is, until Rey’s two-seater plane goes into a nosedive and she finds herself stranded in the Alps in the dead of winter. Trapped inside the wreckage of her aircraft with no way out, she wills herself to make peace with her fate, let it all go, and die as she lived—alone. Except she’s not alone out there; as the world falls away around her, she hears someone, or something, tearing through the fuselage.When she awakens, at first, she’s intensely relieved. Her savior, a man called Ben, seems to be an off-the-grid survivalist, and between her remote location and the mortal injuries she sustained in the crash, it’s a miracle he was able to bring her to safety and nurse her back to health. But as Rey explores her strange new surroundings, it dawns on her that she may not have escaped with her life, after all. With this comes the horrifying revelation that her body isn’t hers anymore; it’s something he built, pieced together from spare parts like a broken doll. And while it’s impossible for Rey to tell just who—or what—Ben is, she does know one thing for sure: he wants to keep her.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 52
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story about 10k. Chapters will be short. But update quickly. And knowing me they'll probably be added art at the end. Hope you guys are still enjoying Halloween. Here's my spooky gift for the holiday.

I wasn’t dead. 

I assessed the cockpit of the two-passenger plane and found that the wide cab, which had felt spacious a few seconds ago, had collapsed inward on impact. The window, while still intact, was a spiderweb of cracks, and the aluminum siding had buckled in at angles that made me feel like I was inside a crumpled up ball of paper.

The air wasn’t yet thick with smoke, but the heavy fumes of diesel mingled with another scent, coppery. I’d smelled it before on hunting trips—blood.

I could see the pilot in my peripheral vision, his slumped posture almost as telling as his silence. He was dead. The crash had happened just a moment ago; I only knew I hadn’t lost consciousness because the glass was clear and it was snowing outside. The flakes dotted the windshield, gathering in what would soon be a blanket obscuring my vision. 

We’d managed to smack into the side of a mountain. I’d been getting ready to take pictures and alarms had started going off. The pilot, an old man named Obi, had uttered a “Bloody hells.” and everything had gone sideways fast. In a heartbeat, our view of the cloudy horizon had gone into a nosedive that felt like the stomach-dropping plunge of a rollercoaster.

Worst of all, now I couldn’t move. It was a full-body paralysis from the neck down and probably meant I had a serious spinal cord injury. The realization came on the heels of another: I was going to die, and even worse, it might not be quick.

A gust of wind howled over the top of the plane, finding the open seams and filling the compact space with cold air. It felt like the first bit of dirt thrown on the top of a coffin. Water trickled in from an unseen hole, down my forehead, across my nose, and onto my lips, tormenting me like a steadily dripping faucet. 

_Please_ , I prayed. _Please_ _let me die quickly._

It wasn’t fair. Twenty-four years on this earth was all I was getting. My days as a photographer for National Geographic were over, and there would be no stone with my name, Rey Niima, to mark my time. The elements would absorb me, and maybe one day they’d find the plane, but I didn’t think so. It was even more useless to hope they’d find my pictures. This stretch of the Alps was barely trafficked; I’d had to hire a seasoned pilot, one of the few who would even venture into the area for a few close-up shots.

I didn’t know too much about him, but he’d said he was a loner. I hoped he was at peace; it was too late for me to ask forgiveness for my part in his death. 

The snow whited everything out, bringing with it a new kind of darkness. I couldn’t watch it pile up; the feeling of being buried alive was too much to bear. Closing my eyes, I willed myself to let go, only for my ears to be filled with a crunching noise that sounded like it was everywhere.

It brought on a new wave of terror. The vibrations rocked like small earthquakes, and I knew it could only mean the plane was sinking, or worse, caving in. What little courage I had failed me; I whimpered, mumbling words that sounded childlike—a prayer, a call for a mother long dead, and even as I heard metal ripping apart around me, a final plea for mercy.

From the corner of my eye, a series of jerky movements made me think the pilot’s body had come alive again, which was a pity, seeing as things were just about to end. But he wasn’t moving; he was being moved. I barely registered his exit as his body was suddenly sucked from its seat. It didn’t make sense, but I didn’t have time to ponder on it. The bottom of the plane dipped underneath me and a wedge of snow struck my head—one that had built considerable weight from piling up.

A few more of those and I wouldn’t freeze to death, I’d suffocate. It was the final straw; I was starting to wonder what I’d done to deserve such an awful end when I heard the voice.

“I’ll get you, sweetheart.”

A deep baritone that sounded almost ethereal. No, these mountains didn’t have people. They barely had life. We’d crashed into the deepest crevice of one of the remotest mountainsides on Earth, and as much as I wanted to believe the Swiss Alr Rescue was here to save me, it was impossible.

I scrunched my eyes as I heard the ear-splitting screech of tearing metal, but it was lost quickly in the gust of howling wind that blasted through the carriage. The cold didn’t let up, whipping around me, taking my breath, and chilling me to the bone.

Finally, the mercy I’d begged for. This time, when I closed my eyes, I did not expect to open them again.

“Wake up.” 

I obeyed. For a second, my mind couldn’t accept the reality of him. His long raven hair tumbled thick around an angular face with warm brown eyes and full lips. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t dressed for winter; somehow, he was here for me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos. I'm running a bit late on getting this all out by Halloween. Another short chapter, but I should have a chapter out a day, so hopefully it make up for it.

There was something brushing my lips. It was hair-like, and stroking them in an even pattern. I tried to open my eyes and couldn’t. 

“Rest, sweetheart.” 

The voice from the plane. The euphoria was gone. I was still, so still I wasn’t sure I was breathing. 

“You had such pretty brown eyes. I don’t have brown...I’m sorry. But hazel-green, it’ll have to do.” 

He tutted, the words not making sense. _ Did I lose my sight in the storm? _

“Your lips are perfect. I kept them as they were, just adding some color to them. I find natural the best, not artificial red. I want you to look in the mirror and feel like yourself.” 

I continued to feel his brush on my lips, wondering if I should be afraid. The idea that I’d survived a sure death only to be picked up by some lunatic was comical, and had I the means, I would probably have erupted into fits of laughter.

“You’ve been such wonderful company. I’ve been here alone so long. I can’t believe I saved you in time. Do you want me to curl your hair? I can add freckles. You would look younger, with them. But—” The brushstrokes stopped. “I’ll let you decide, how’s that?”

The tumble of words made no sense to me, all clashing together. I was hallucinating. Maybe I was still in the plane. Dying.

“We’ll see about a voice.” He sounded almost as if he was talking to himself now. “Screaming hurts my ears. After so much quiet, I don’t know how I’d do with screaming.”

His fingers pressed intrusively between my lips. “I’ll give you teeth, but if you bite me, they’re coming out.”

_ What is this? _ I needed to wake up. Or go back to sleep.

“You’ll be shorter. Women shouldn’t be so tall. Don’t be too angry, you're a bit over five feet now. I didn’t make it unnatural.”

A tinkling noise made me imagine a paintbrush tapping against glass. He blew on my lips lightly, as if setting the work he’d done. 

“I haven’t attached the rest yet. No eyes until I do. I don’t want you scared. I figure we can talk, and I can tell you the rules.”

_ Please let me go _ . I couldn’t scream it, but everything in me knew this was all sorts of wrong. I couldn’t fixate on words like “attach” and “eyes,” because they meant something that was worse than nightmares, something I couldn’t even will myself to imagine.

“You’re number seven.” A different kind of brush touched my lower lip, one that felt wider. “That’s a lucky number.”

His hand touched my cheek. “I know you’re scared. But you’ll do better than the others. They had families, little ones, husbands.”

_ Last ones? Did he kill them? Is he going to kill me? _ To my surprise, the last thought wasn’t unwelcome. Part of me thought it might be better than waking up. But as he kept working, another notion started to creep in. I tried to wipe it away, tried to stuff it back inside the vault it had come from.

I was dead. And he was piecing me together like a doll.

But that was madness. 

“You’re already so different. I saw the photos. You capture such wonderful still lifes. A drop of rain on a leaf, a fish in the water, and there’s no people. Not a single one.” His voice pleased. “In fact, on your phone, I couldn’t find any friends or family. You don’t seem to like people at all.”

The words cut. My mother had been dead five years from a short battle with cancer. My father was a mystery, some random hookup; I didn’t even have a name to put to him. No siblings, grandparents, aunts or uncles. And friends, lovers, both happened on location, but beyond that... They evaporated into good memories. Nothing more.

“I capture life too,” he cooed. “Sometimes it’s a small flicker, barely enough to bottle up, and sometimes it's not enough to save. But you—so much light. That’s why it was so easy. I could barely believe it. Beautiful. You’ll never know how beautiful it was to hold.”

I didn’t believe in an afterlife, and so I didn’t believe in the soul. But just as the image of him piecing me together had come, so did the certainty that if this wasn’t a nightmare, then I must have had a soul—and by supernatural means, he had taken it. 

“I’m going to make you rest. But only because this part…” I heard a noise, a scraping, grinding sound. “It’ll be okay. When you wake up, everything is going to be perfect.”

_ No, no, no.  _ But pressure, so much pressure, began to squeeze my temples. It didn’t make sense; it was like someone was rooting around inside my brain. 

_ Stop! Please, stop! _

And finally, blessedly, it did.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos! I won't make it all out by Halloween. Art by Doan Trang on Fiverr

Particles of light floated gently across my line of sight, and I watched them fade in and out for a while before my awareness caught up with me. I was awake, and alive. I remembered the plane crash, my sure death, and something else, something terrifying...but as I took stock of my surroundings, I chalked the last part up to a nightmare _._ That’s what it was. 

The mattress creaked under me as I rolled over. I had plenty of room; it was something close to a queen bed, and high up off the floor. Beside me was a small dresser with a lime green lamp sitting on top of it. I found the switch, hoping it would give me a better picture of my surroundings. It lit up a six-tier dresser, a bookcase, and a writing desk, but I was no closer to figuring out where I was. 

I slipped out of bed, finding myself dressed in a white nightie that went to my ankles. I examined the lace collar, which was so long it tucked under my chin; it had a yellow tint to it that spoke of aging. The material was cotton, the design something I remembered seeing in a TV show from the fifties. It wasn’t mine, which meant that maybe there was another woman here. I hoped so. The floor had rugs all over it; most looked to be wolfskin, but others were rabbit pelts patched together like a quilt.

_My savior must be a trapper_. I guessed that it was some off-the-grid chap who lived nomadically and had etched out a small place for himself where, frankly, no human should have been. I must have won some astronomical lottery ending up in his neck of the woods. 

Hopefully they had a radio. I would really have a story for the magazine when I returned to the office. I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling how tight the collar was. Something felt off. I didn’t feel right. Not pain, just—I glanced at the dresser across the room. It was of standard size; at least, it didn’t look larger than usual, but as I came closer, I noticed that it was only slightly shorter than me. My height was closer to six feet than five, so I should have been…

_I made you shorter_ , my brain remembered his words.

_Nope_ . I shut the thought down. _You are not five feet, because someone cannot just whittle you down nine inches_. 

I noticed a hairbrush, comb, and what looked to be a jewelry box on top of the dresser. 

_Height wasn’t the only thing he told you he changed,_ the voice inside me whispered.

I told myself I was only opening the box to quiet my wild imagination; after that, I’d go out and talk to whoever owned this place. When I opened it, music played, and a plastic ballerina started twirling above a pink cushion. Swan Lake was the melody, the same notes over and over. I wasn’t paying attention to the dancing figure though. The mirror behind it had my full attention.

_Can’t deny it now, can you?_ I shut the lid. My heart thudded fast—so fast, I was positive I was having a heart attack. 

“Help!” I tried to call out, but instead of words, a rush of air passed over my tongue. I tried again and again. 

_He didn’t give you a voice box._

A memory floated up. _You're not real anymore._ I shook it away. My skin was pink, I was breathing, and while it was knocking against my chest, I did have a heartbeat.

Frantic, I went to the door and tried to open it. The metal handle was tarnished gold, and it didn’t turn an inch. My fist was raised to beat on the door when I noticed the marks etched into the wood. 

Not marks. Scratches.

Reaching out, I traced them with my fingers, some of them grooved deep into the wood. 

_Oh my God_. No longer wanting the person on the other side to know I was awake, I backed away. The only other exit was the window, and it wasn’t big enough to escape from, but maybe I could see out of it.

It was above the dresser, and it took a bit of effort, but I managed to pull myself up, hiking up the gown to give my knees a better purchase. 

The world outside wasn’t visible. A white-out of snow swirled silently across the window panes, and the glass was thick, making it impossible to hear anything. It was eerily quiet. I slipped down, finding my shorter stature evident again when my feet took longer than usual to hit the ground. 

The writing desk pulled my attention then. The design was like my outfit, something out of the fifties, and I could pop the top right off, revealing its contents: paper—all of it blank—with pencils, markers, and even crayons. A brown journal stood out from the rest, its leather binding handmade. The paper was thick, its color like ivory bone. I untied the rawhide strap binding it closed.

Rey Niima

My name, written in perfect cursive, rested at the top of the first page. 

I shut the journal and tossed it back inside the desk without care. The implications of this were more than I could handle at the moment. I gave the bookcase a once-over; it was the only thing left in the room I hadn’t explored.

Its shelves looked like part of a thrift store collection. There was Shakespeare, Bronte, Austin, but also random almanacs, a Harry Potter—the third one, I think—a few by Stephen King, and many other random tattered volumes. Were they from planes he’d scavenged? The question was answered when I picked up The Hobbit and found that it was my own copy, the one my mom had given me when I was ten. 

On the bottom shelf there were matching brown journals.

I picked out the one on the end. Flipping through its tattered pages, my worst fears were confirmed.

_“My name is Rose Tico. I think the year is 1984, but I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything. I can’t leave this room. The monster wants me to call him Ben. He isn’t human, I’m sure of it. There’s something about his eyes. They don’t look right. As if they’re glass. My husband was flying the plane. I think he’s dead._

_We have two kids. They’re with my sister now, but I don’t think I’ll ever see them again._

_I’m afraid. There are so many journals. Some have pictures. Some have goodbye letters. Three of them just dissolve into ramblings._

_I tried to cut myself and I didn’t bleed. I don’t think I’m alive. I don’t know what I am._

_If you’re reading this, don’t scream. That’s what all the journals say: don’t ever scream. He says I’m not a good fit. I don’t think I’m going to last long. He says he’s going to let me go. But I don’t think that means I’ll go home._

_I love my children._

_Momma loves you._

A click alerted me that the door was opening. Frozen with the journal in my hands, I felt like an animal caught in the headlights, unable to do anything more than watch as the door swung open.

His face was the same, but I hadn’t noticed how big he was. He filled the doorframe, seeming less a man and more a monster without horns and fangs. His expression was serene, in stark contrast to my fear, and he seemed almost perplexed by my reaction to him. 

When he saw what I was holding, the smile on his lips faltered. 

“I’d hoped to catch you waking up.” He crossed the room and took the journal from me without resistance, flipping to the first page. He sighed, looking sad as he put it back. “Rose. She was a mistake. I knew that from the first week.”

The admission made me jerk away, crashing into the bookcase, knocking a few old novels to the floor. Ben reached out a hand, steadying me. “Shh...None of that.”

Up close, I checked his eyes for what Rose had warned about and found nothing unusual within them. They were human, full of concern and not a shred of malice. _Don’t scream._ Not that I could, but I pressed my lips together, afraid even an attempt would awaken a darker side of my captor.

“I’ll take these books out. Normally I like them to act as a warning,” he said soothingly, as if I should be happy he was doing me this favor. “You don’t need them.”

I stared at the open door behind him. He followed my gaze, and when his eyes came back to me, the concern had been replaced by thinly veiled irritation. Trying to deflect, I pointed to my throat. 

The irritation vanished. “Not yet, little one. It’s to keep you safe. I don’t want to get angry at you.” He patted my cheek. “Now, I’ll give you another day. You can draw, read, rest…” His fingers drifted to the back of my head and rubbed across something I hadn’t felt before.

When I reached back to feel the spot, my fingers brushed something metallic, like a switch. My eyes met his. 

_No...That isn’t possible. I couldn’t...He’s put some kind of jewelry on me._

“It winds.” His fingers made the turning motion. “Each crank gives you an hour of sleep.” When he reached back to show me, I violently shook my head. 

“Insomnia leads to madness. I insist you sleep at least five hours a night,” he ordered in a tone that was almost parental—winking at the end, as if that eased the horror of it.

I felt my pulse trilling in my chest at a speed that felt unnatural. I couldn’t count the beats. My hand clutched at the fabric of my nightie, unsure if I was going to die of fright.

“Rabbit,” he said. My brow furrowed, confused, until he tapped my chest. “It’ll last a few months, maybe longer. I can find another. Don’t worry.”

Rational thought kicked in. He was orchestrating some elaborate hoax. That was it. Tricking girls into believing they were dolls or puppets. I had been kidnapped, and I needed to find a way out before this maniac killed me.

“You can call me Ben.” His knuckles drifted along the outline of my jaw, tilting it up so I’d look at him. His eyes didn’t meet mine, but he gripped my chin so he could examine me better. “I treat each one I find with care, but I’ll admit, I spent extra time on you.”

He leaned down to kiss me. It was too much. There was nowhere to go, but I ran. He tried to stop me, but I dodged his swipe, barely. He shouted my name as I burst out of the room and into another, much bigger, crowded with tables and tools; it looked like a workshop.

A woman rested on the table. 

I froze, the image finally breaking through my shock. I peered down at what could not be, but was. Sightless eyes stared at the ceiling, the woman devoid of color—not a death shade of gray, but as if she’d been drained to contours of black and white; even the hair was colorless. 

The body was mine. 

My mouth opened; again, air whooshed past my lips. I screamed and screamed. 

Ben’s large arms encircled my waist, dragging me away from it. I flailed, not caring. _No. I’m not dead. I’m not._ He was murmuring to me—I think words of comfort, or maybe it was something worse, explaining what he’d done. I couldn’t listen, couldn’t stay there one more minute. 

Fingers threaded through my hair. I felt something twist, once, twice. _No_. But it was too late. He let go, and I heard a small click before everything blinked out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos. There is non con in this chapter. It's short. This isn't a smut story. I do enjoy those, but I made this one's all horror.

I awoke back in bed, but this time I wasn’t alone. Ben rested next to me with his arm draped across my waist. It tightened, feeling me stir. 

“Two hours’ nap calm you down?” he hummed. “I’d teach you a lesson for running, but I think you’ve been punished enough.”

Unable to talk, I pleaded with my eyes, but he only looked at me apathetically.

“So many questions. That’s usually how the first week goes. Why? How? Let me go!” He yawned again, but this time I was sure it was exaggerated. “Why can’t you all just be happy that you’re alive? How hard is that to understand?”

For a few minutes we lay there, and he seemed content in our silence. I stared at the ceiling, trying to convince myself I was in my own bedroom, alone. Afraid, I was unable to voice anything, but not ready to silently scream. This entire fucked-up situation was too much to handle, and a second later, another horrible truth dawned on me: I couldn’t cry. My shoulders shuddered, unable to stop, even though my eyes stayed dry. 

“Tears eventually ruin the paint.” His fingers traced my cheek, where tears should have been streaking, drawing lines. 

He touched my face as if it wasn’t mine, but his. And while he met my eyes this time as he looked at me, it wasn’t as an equal, not even close. I was his  _ creation _ . Something he was proud of. 

“I took as much color from what was left of you—” He paused and seemed to check his words, before his voice changed, adopting a tone I was starting to become familiar with, the one that patronized. “We can talk about it later, maybe in a year or so. That should be enough time.”

Angrily, I turned my head away.

“Don’t be mad. You’ll have to trust me. You’re not ready for all that stuff.” I felt his lips touch my shoulder. “I don’t normally spend so much time placing a heart, fingernails, teeth. I can add more. It’s painstaking work, but…” He met my gaze. “All we have is time.”

This time his kisses were less innocent. His hands roamed down my nightie. The implications were clear. When I struggled, his touch stopped. 

“You can enjoy this,” he said, as if that would matter. “I made sure. It’ll be nice. You’ll see.”

His size made escape impossible; my hands pushing against his body were nothing more than a kitten’s paws trying to bat away a lion. His mouth delved between my thighs. But the build up was all wrong. The pleasure peaking without effort. I writhed against it, but his large hands held my hips still as I came with a sickening realization, I had no control over my body. When he pulled the nightie up, I took the only escape I had, reaching behind for the switch, cranking it once, hard, before he jerked my hand away, swearing.

One click, and I was out.

********

This time when I awoke, I was alone. The door was locked; I didn’t beat on it. Instead I searched every corner of the room till I knew there wasn’t a camera, or any obvious way he was watching me. I stripped, needing to inspect every inch of myself.

What had I been expecting? Seams, stitches, staples? There was none of that, but I was hairless—my legs, arms, everywhere. My skin was soft, warm, and upon closer inspection, flawless. I had acquired my fair share of scars over the years, but even the large one on the back of my thigh, where I’d gashed my leg open dirt biking at age sixteen, was noticeably absent.

There weren't any more buttons—which was a relief. But when I touched the back of my head, I found the bump of metal without the switch. Not that I wanted to turn it again. 

The dresser in the room had clothes. I was afraid they were going to be lacy, or maybe doll-like, but instead they were a regular, if a bit random, assortment. I found a bra, underwear, and a baggy T-shirt with white-washed jeans. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand how he’d acquired these. They were clean, smelling faintly of lavender. Being dressed took some of the edge off. Enough to make me forget that I wasn’t hungry, that I didn’t have even the slightest urge to pee. 

Before selecting a book, I alphabetized them, needing something to do. The journals were gone now. I was both relieved and disappointed. Who knows what information I could have gleaned from them? There had been six; that I did remember. Six women before me.

The beating of my heart was no longer a comfort. It was fast. Too fast. A rabbit’s heart. But how? The questions came, a flurry of them, with no answers; I knew they would drive me mad if I didn’t distract myself immediately. I grabbed a book, Pride and Prejudice. The inside cover had the stamp of a library, with a ticket tucked into its sleeve.

_ Checked out 1978, New York Public Library.  _

A few of the pages were dog-eared. I wondered how often I’d be left alone. Would I have time to read them all? Surely some of these women had stayed here long enough to accomplish this. It was not a welcome thought. I’d always traveled, hating the idea of settling down; I’d never stayed in one place longer than a month. 

This room was my home now. I was never going to leave it. Terror crashed against me like a tidal wave, knocking me off my feet. The four walls closed in on me till all I could see was the door, where six women had finally gone mad enough to claw at it. I’d be the seventh.

For a while I lay there, curled up, feeling everything, until it receded into numbness. I didn’t respond when the door opened, didn’t even look up. His feet were in gray socks. They stopped in front of me and he reached down for the book I’d forgotten about.

“I was impatient,” he said, and when I didn’t respond, “I’m not angry at you. Come on out. I’ll show you my workshop.”

The words made me glance up. He wasn’t as put together now, his long hair standing at all angles as if he’d just gotten out of bed, and his outfit, while still the same, was rumpled. When he held his hand out for me I took it, the promise of leaving my prison too great to pass up. 

He didn’t let go of my hand, his grip firm enough that I knew it was non-negotiable. His content smile at my obedience set my teeth on edge, but I decided, for now, I’d remain as passive as possible. 

We didn’t walk far. The table was empty now—no body—leaving my eyes free to scan the room, seeing everything I hadn’t before.

Dollhouses. I counted six of them, and each one was different. One was tall, churchlike; another looked like a castle with stained-glass windows. There was also a cottage, a farmhouse, and a smaller one that had modern touches—a blue two-story house with a picket fence.

Scattered around the miniature houses I saw paint, tools, chisels, and an assortment of small projects, mostly trees and bushes, that remained unfinished. He led me closer to them, but when I pulled toward the nearest dollhouse, he yanked me back, tsking.

“Don’t peek into other people’s windows, it’s rude.”

Whatever the fuck that meant. The subtle smell of wood lingered, but also other scents: sage, cut grass, and even baked bread. I wondered if the houses had certain scents attached to them, like there was a candle somewhere filling them up from the inside. 

There wasn’t another room. This was it. Which meant when he wasn’t in my room, he was here. And as I looked around, I noticed another weird thing; there didn’t seem to be an exit. Besides my room, there wasn’t any place I could flee to. Not one I could see, anyway. I wondered if there was a secret passage in. There had to be; he’d found me in the snowstorm, hadn’t he? And if there was a way in, there had to be a way out. I tried to find it, but nothing was jumping out.

Amusement crossed his lips as he watched me taking in the rest of his living space. “What would you like to do?”

If I could have laughed, I would have. Was he mocking me? There was nothing to do. Unless I wanted to watch him work. I shrugged, wanting to punch him.

“We could go to a picture thing. Small bag of popcorn. A fizz drink. But fair warning, you’ll need me to take it out after. You don’t want it going rotten in there.”

Once again, I was faced with the madness. The air outside was thick with snow. Was he going to walk me out in the dead of winter? Or make us pretend to see things? He took my silence as mulling it over. Letting go of my hand, he shot me a warning look.  _ Don’t run. _

He opened a drawer and brought out a knob. It looked ordinary. Another warning look, as if I was a child who needed constant reminding. He walked back to my door without me. 

I watched him switch the two knobs without tools. His large hands made quick work of it, and when he returned, he set the old one on the counter. Was this his way of pretending? We’d go back inside and he’d what, make me watch the wall while he got handsy again?

The passive façade I was trying to maintain only went so far. I wasn’t the type to close my eyes and think of England; if he was going to rape me, he was going to find a wildcat with claws. He grinned, ready to take my hand and walk me back inside my room. This time I wouldn’t be able to escape.

I noticed a hammer within reaching distance. 

I should have grabbed it sooner. By the time my fingers curled around the instrument, he had already taken hold of my arm. I didn’t even get a good swing in as we grappled. Instead, I’d just royally pissed him off.

Before I could comprehend the action, he grasped the hand that had held the hammer and slammed it on the counter, raising the weapon high in the air.

I expected excruciating pain, the kind of blow that would break bones or mash flesh. It did hurt. There was one blinding flash of agony before my hand simply shattered.

_ Holy shit. _ I stared, dumbfounded. There wasn’t blood. Not a drop. In fact, there wasn’t bone or flesh, either. Where the skin on my wrist ended, the surface became chalky white stone. 

His anger dissipated, and something like guilt flitted over his face before he adjusted it into a tight-lipped reproachful glower. 

“I’ll fix it tomorrow.” He tilted my chin up and smiled. It chilled me worse than the hammer to the hand, which my brain hadn’t yet wrapped itself around. His grin looked a tad too big, and the eyes, for the first time, lost their light, revealing what looked like dull glass behind them.

Rose had been right; he wasn’t human. He walked me back to the door, holding my working hand. Swinging it a bit, as if we were on a stroll. I felt detached, yet still unable to do more than a puppy on a leash. His mood changed like the weather. He grasped the doorknob, but not before giving me a wink. 

He had to pull me across—not because I was resistant, but because my shock was so great I couldn’t accept the reality of the changed room. 

The concession stand blinked with its border of white lights. I saw pictures of popcorn and drinks. I could smell the salt and butter. The carpet was pristine, as was everything else. Ben glanced around, annoyed.

I heard a scuffle of feet, and from the shadows behind the counter a man appeared. He had long gray hair down to his shoulders, metal rimmed spectacles, and wore a crisp white shirt with a red vest. 

Smiling, he waved us over. His eyes stopped once on Ben, the smile freezing, before landing on me. For a flicker of a second, he took me in with watery eyes so clear they appeared translucent. And then those eyes looked past me, to the door beyond. Ben cleared his throat, and the man’s neck scrunched down, reminding me of a turtle.

“Popcorn and…” Ben paused. “Strawberry soda is my favorite. But I guess they have root beer and orange. No caffeinated brands. It’s bad for you. And diet soda gives you cancer.”

The man behind the counter’s expression twisted in rage while Ben was looking at me. But when he returned his attention to the man, it had reverted to the cheery grin.

I mouthed  _ orange _ , making the O sound big. I noticed, as he filled my drink order, that he wore a gold name tag that said  _ Unkar _ . 

The drinks and popcorn were pushed over to us. I reached for my soda, only remembering my dominant hand was gone when my stump bumped against the cup. The man’s eyes widened momentarily. I hooked my arm around it, bringing it close to my body, pretending that’s what I’d meant to do all along. I thought I saw a smirk on Ben’s face.

“Start the movie,” Ben ordered, nodding for me to follow now that his arms were full.

“Yes, sir,” Unkar squeaked, revealing that he did have a voice. But just like that, he was gone. 

The theatre was enormous, the screen draped with red curtains tied with gold sashes. We sat in the middle. The seats had thick padding, but they didn’t lean back. Ben waited for me to sit before snaking his arm around my shoulder.

“You’ll like this one.” He took a sip of his soda. The screen flashed a large five as it counted down.

My mouth found the straw. It was cold, fresh, and decidedly orange soda. Ben watched me drink. I wasn’t thirsty, but it was so nice to feel it on my tongue. Feel something normal. His hand came over the lid, drawing it away from me.

“Don’t drink it all at once,” he warned. “It’s a long movie.”

The Wizard of Oz. The sepia screen gave it away immediately. The movie I’d enjoyed watching as a child now felt like a horror film as I rewatched it next to Ben. And the parallels were not lost on me. 

But as I slowly drank my soda, it was him my eyes were drawn to. His mouth opened, laughing at the scarecrow, booing at the witch. It was like watching a child. The hand on my shoulder kept its touch light. Once, when Dorothy was sleeping in the poppies, he’d leaned over and kissed my temple.

I never ate the popcorn. He’d finished it all by the halfway point. His soda too. When my straw vibrated, letting me know I had reached the end, Ben took it away before I could crack it open and fish out the ice cubes. Girls must have done that before. 

The ending came, all too soon. Dorothy went home. I stared at my missing hand, wishing I had a pair of ruby slippers. There had to be a way out of all this. 

As we watched the credits he shifted, his fingers walking up my neck and back down. I stiffened, crossing my arms, making myself smaller. 

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered as he nuzzled my neck with his nose, drawing a line up to my jaw. “I tried to bring a few to the show, but none of them would sit still.”

I turned my head away when he tried to kiss me. But instead of responding with irritation, he patted my head affectionately. 

“There’s Gone with the Wind too, but I don’t like that one as much,” he said. “I also have Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street, but it’s not Christmas.”

He rose, and I decided there was no choice but to follow. When I stood up, I felt a slosh. My hand and stump both went to my belly.

He didn’t say anything, but as we walked back, his hand tightened on mine, vicelike. I didn’t know him, but the way he studied me as we neared the final exit felt like he was sizing me up. I didn’t think it was about sex; he was glancing at my stomach. 

Either my brain was going numb or survival was making me accept the impossible, filing each awful little thing away in a cabinet, where they would inevitably spark a mental breakdown when I decided to pull some out. 

He turned the handle and I skirted in front of him, stopping him from opening the door. He was confused, as I wasn’t fighting him or trying to run.

I mouthed, “What?” and looked at my stomach, then mouthed the word again. Clearly, whatever he needed to do wasn’t going to be pleasant. And I felt as if I’d rather know than be thrust into a scary situation where I lacked control.

My actions caught him off guard. It seemed like my blunt request for him to spill the beans had him considering the request. Finally, he nodded.

“I have to pump your stomach.”

The admission made me feel sick. But I steeled myself and met his eyes. 

“How?” I mouthed. 

“Hose down the throat. You didn’t eat popcorn. It won’t take long.”

My eyes must have betrayed my fear, for he let go of my hand and cupped my cheek. “It’s not bad, more uncomfortable. I could just have you sleep during it.”

Maybe if I let him, he’d give me my voice back. I tapped my throat.

“You’ll just scream and beg.”

I shook my head, but he looked away, unconvinced. “They all do. Better this way.”

He opened the door and I followed, feeling as if color left the world as soon as we stepped across the threshold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the comments and kudos. I'm posting the last bit. I'm waiting on an art piece to go with it. But I'm going to complete it for now. This really doesn't have an HEA, but I enjoy Stephen King short stories and I love the ones that are left for you to decide how the character lives after.

I lay in bed, flexing my new fingers, testing them for any abnormalities. The stomach extraction had been invasive, but tolerable. However, when he asked if I’d like my hand back, he’d blindfolded me and wouldn’t explain why. I’d acquiesced, needing my dominant hand more than answers. 

The only painful part had been setting it. He’d warned me, but still, I was not prepared to feel a ligament reattach. I had wanted so bad to rip the blindfold off, to know if the pain was simply my imagination. To reassure myself that my skin was not in fact being stretched until it had snapped surely over each finger like a glove.

When it was done, Ben had looked tired. Exhausted. He’d walked me back to the room and shut the door without following me inside.

Resting, but not sleeping. It wasn’t the same, but too much had happened. I was in Oz, or a nightmarish version of it. I needed to get home. But what would happen when I left Ben? Was he all that was keeping me alive?

It was a terrifying thought.

The door opened, and I peeked over the blankets to see him. When he saw me, he rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. “I just want to sleep. I’ll let you sleep too.”

He stripped. The sight of his body naked showed me exactly how powerfully built he was. Somehow, he seemed larger without his clothes on.

His weariness was palpable. When his head hit the pillow, he seemed ready to sleep; I was an afterthought. He made me lift up my hair. Complying, I felt something prick the base of my neck, where the button was. It hurt, enough that I tried to turn my head.

“It’s already in. It’ll be a long sleep—a day, maybe two.” He started cranking. “I was nice. Usually I make the girls watch so they never attack me again. You’re so different. I think you’re going to be the one that stays.” He yawned. “I could put dreams in. Not tonight, but next time. I make them for myself, but I’d give you one.” 

For the first time, I didn’t feel real. I was a vessel, something that he could bust apart, piece back together, and even fill up. I was glad when the clicking stopped; had I been able to think on it longer, I might have gone mad.

  
  


*******

When I woke up, I was lying on a table. I rolled my head to see Ben, his back turned as he worked at the counter across the room. When I tried to sit up, he quickly put down his things and came over to me.

“Couldn’t remember the exact number of turns.” He touched my shoulder, surveying me, or more importantly, my throat. “I felt bad about the hand. I decided you can have your voice back, if you promise not to scream.”

Afraid it was too good to be true, I cautiously tried my own name. “R-Rey.”

It felt like a gift, an invisible muzzle torn off. Ben watched me warily. I could tell he was expecting the usual. And while I didn’t want to scream, I had a million questions. I almost started rambling them off before I remembered how much he would hate that.

“Thank you.” I didn’t want to lose the gift. “Would you like me to stay silent while you work?”

His eyes lit up, and the clouded expression dissolved into delight. “Would you like to help me?”

Answers were what I wanted. If I could keep my cool, maybe he would tell me, or I’d find a good moment to ask. 

He showed me his current project, a small wooden cat. He had been applying hair to it. Mouse hair, by the look of the pelt. He pulled a stool out for me, and I sat while he grabbed a pair of tweezers. 

“Could you hold it while I apply?”

He set the figure in my open palm; it was slightly larger than a quarter. After a moment, I was beginning to think he didn’t need me to hold it. With meticulous care, he applied each small hair. His hands didn’t shake, and his eyes were hyper-focused. When the side of the cat was covered, he finally looked up at me.

“One question.”

I opened my mouth and then snapped it shut, worried I’d waste it on something stupid. Was I dead? Yes. Was I trapped in some weird body? Yes. What had happened to all the other girls? What if he actually told me? Did I want to know? 

“Could you tell me—” I paused, knowing if I didn’t word this right, he could deflect. He might still. “…your story?”

The question wasn’t what he was hoping for; I could see that right away. I didn’t ask another one. Instead, as the minutes ticked by, I wondered if he would ignore it. But as he flipped the figure over in my hand to work on the other side, he let out a resigned sigh.

“You would ask that.” He pursed his lips. “What if I say no?”

He met my eyes, no doubt waiting for me to start screaming or protesting. Something told me he  _ had _ to answer the question, unless I gave him a reason not to. I held my hand still, trying my best to keep my face expressionless.

Another lapse of silence. He worked the rest of the hair on. Hours crawled by, but I found I didn’t tire. When the small cat was finished, he put it down.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a white doorknob that, as I inspected it closer, was filled with a billowing swirl of wispy cloudlike tendrils. Just like before, he switched out the doorknobs. A soft light pulsed when it clicked into place.

“I exist. I doubt I was born, but I don’t know. The tools were on the table and I knew how to use them. I craft doors, portals, but I don’t know who uses them. I take energy from the life I find outside. People, animals, birds sometimes…”

He gripped the handle hard, and the door groaned loudly as he opened it. Snow drifted across the threshold, but the howl of the wind made my eyes widen. I had forgotten that cold, the cold of sitting forgotten in a downed aircraft as you waited for the snow to consume you, and it screamed on the other side of that door like a banshee. 

I could see the side of the mountain where we’d crashed; the snow had already erased any trace of the wreckage. He let me look for a long minute before wrenching the door shut again.

“The planes are brought to me, always with a woman on board. A gift, I think. For making the portals.”

My eyes shifted to the dollhouses. I noticed a light switch on in the small one. He followed my gaze. “I don’t want to build you a house. I hope you stay. If I have to whittle you down that small, you’ll stay that way forever.” 

He went to the small cat figurine on the counter, inspecting the figurine. “The church has mice, or so I was told. I promised her a few cats to help.”

“Her?”

He tsked. “I answered your question for today. When you’ve been good, I’ll let you ask another.”

I peered closer at the church and thought I heard music. His hand trailed up my back. 

“Ben. If you answer one more…I’ll kiss you.” 

Arms encircled me, his cheek pressed against my own. “Hmm?”

“Is—Is Rose in that house with the picket fence?”

He gave me a squeeze. “I knew you’d understand.” He let go of me and walked over to the house, smiling proudly. “I made little figures of her sons. I even offered to make new ones if she wanted them to grow up, but I don’t think she can bear to part with them, even though she knows they’re not real.”

He allowed me to come close to the small house with the picket fence, and with a delicate touch that belied his thick fingers, opened the front door. I leaned close, staring in. I didn’t see anyone, but I heard the sound of a TV and children laughing.

A scream wanted to ripple out of my throat. We were toys. Things to play with, to keep the eternal hours from boring him. And I’d either be trapped in this world forever or wake up someday in an even smaller one.

I felt the last piece of the person I was slipping away. 

I turned to face him, wrapping my arms around his neck, noticing once again that the light in his eyes had faded slightly. 

“I knew you’d be the one.”

I crushed my lips against his, my hands combing through his hair till I found what I’d hoped was there. His arms that had tightened around my waist tried to react, to push me away, but it was too late.

It clicked once.

The silence was all that was left, and it was louder than a scream.


End file.
